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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30003753">roadmap to oblivion</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderlustt/pseuds/wanderwithme'>wanderwithme (wanderlustt)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Commence series of unfortunate events, F/M, Isekai - Reader falls into the Dragon Age Universe lol, Modern Girl in Thedas, Romance</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 20:13:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>12,098</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30003753</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderlustt/pseuds/wanderwithme</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Cullen motherfucking Rutherford?”</p><p>His face contorts, “How do you know my name?”</p><p>In less than a blink, Leliana has the sharp edge of her dagger pressed against your neck. “A spy? I say we kill her.”</p><p>You recognize their faces. You’ve played their games, parsed through all their entries painstakingly in the codex, memorized their stories, their kingdoms of origin—you’ve even romanced a few of them in the hopes that it would fill that listless hole in your heart where the joy and fulfillment should’ve been.</p><p>(In which Reader finds herself barreling headfirst into the Dragon Age universe and discovers her only way out is to stay along for the ride.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Cullen Rutherford/Original Female Character(s), Cullen Rutherford/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>39</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>i luv u cullen rutherford u giant boob</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em>This is death</em>, you think, spiraling down into oblivion.</p><p>The colors around you are swirling. <em>Dancing</em>. They feel warm—and then hot. Searing, like wrapping your hands around the handle of a cast-iron pan.</p><p>Sure, the shrieking seems like moot point when you know you’re falling to go splat. All the colors in the world, but there’s always a bottom to meet. When you’re going to die while hurtling through the stratosphere at however many hundred miles an hour, you decide to shriek anyway in the hopes that someone hears.</p><p>In the hopes that someone catches you.</p><p>And someone does, of course. No, not someone. Something. The shrieking comes to a resounding halt when you land with a hard <em>thud</em> on what feels like a thousand needles in a casket. Like some kind of shitty two-dollar magic trick, except they’re not actually needles you’re lying on—they’re markers. And you’re not in a casket, you’re on a war table.</p><p>You’re pretty sure you’ve been horribly, horribly impaled in the kidney by the horns of the one piece shaped like a stag, but you wouldn’t know. You’re numb.</p><p>“Am I dead?” You ask to nobody in particular, except it’s not nobody. You have a viewing party of five other people, absolutely flabbergasted at the sight of you. <em>No way</em>, you think, staring at the blond one with the chuffed hair. “Cullen motherfucking Rutherford?”</p><p>His face contorts, “How do you know my name?”</p><p>In less than a blink, Leliana has the sharp edge of her dagger pressed against your neck. “A spy? I say we kill her.”</p><p>It’s one thing to see it happen on screen, but a whole different ballgame to actually have a sharp edge pressed against your neck. One wrong move and you’ll be bleeding out the jugular for days—or is it your carotid? You wouldn’t know because you’ve never actually considered it a possibility of death.</p><p>“<em>Wait, wait, wait</em>. I say we take a moment and reevaluate.”</p><p>Sweat is seeping through the armpits of your ripped sequin dress and you’re starting to realize mistakes of epic proportions have been made. But you consider it for a moment anyway. What are you, even? You <em>were</em> chronically unemployed, but now you’re just working part-time jobs here and there to make ends meet.</p><p>
  <em>Bartender—how do I translate that to Dragon Age? Tavern girl? Barmaid?</em>
</p><p>The five of them just look at you, waiting for an explanation. Leliana unfathomably takes a step back and lowers her dagger.</p><p>As soon as the blade is off your neck, you bolt towards the door.</p><p>The scruff of your party dress is promptly grabbed by the woman with the surly face. <em>Cassandra</em>.</p><p>“Ow,” you hiss, as she hauls you back into the room by the ankle and drops you on the floor like a sack of potatoes. “<strong><em>I SAID OW</em></strong>!” She ignores you and has your wrists in shackles while the others start demanding questions.</p><p>
  <em>How did you get in here? Who sent you? What master do you serve? What name do you go by?</em>
</p><p>And wait—<em>wait</em>.</p><p>“I don’t even know who you are,” is your automatic response, except you’re wrong.</p><p>You do know who they are.</p><p>You recognize their faces. You’ve played their games, parsed through all their entries painstakingly in the codex, memorized their stories, their kingdoms of origin—you’ve even romanced a few of them in the hopes that it would fill that listless hole in your heart where the joy and fulfillment should’ve been. (You’re still waiting for the returns on that. Several angry emails to Bioware have evidently been left unread.)</p><p><em>Leliana, Josephine, Cassandra—Cullen</em>.</p><p>And the inquisitor.</p><p>Lavellan.</p><p>You know her face, except she looks a little… different than your Lavellan. You’ve modded her hair in almost every playthrough so you almost don’t recognize her at first. She’s bald, and tan, and much more beautiful in person. The annoyingly limited hair options in the character design screen don’t really do her justice. She has the kind of face that’s inherently authoritative. It demands respect. (The kind of face that makes you want to kneel on the ground and kiss the toe of her boots and say <em>does my lady care for a spot of tea</em>?)</p><p>But then again, this isn’t your Lavellan—not really, anyway. Your Lavellan is warm, compassionate, and endeared to everyone she meets. This Lavellan is staring at you with all the scorn and revilement in the world, like you’ve just shit in her boot or something.</p><p>“Who are you?” She asks in a very sexy British accent that actually doesn’t sound much like your Lavellan either. It sounds more like—well, it sounds like what Lavellan would actually sound like if Dragon Age were a real thing. Which it isn’t.</p><p>Except it is.</p><p>“I’m—wait. Just give me a second.” You pinch your right cheek so hard your eyes tear up. When nothing happens, you sigh. “Damn it.” <em>Not a dream. </em>“Really thought that would work.”</p><p>The other councilors just stare at you. Leliana’s the only one who looks somewhat amused at your plight. “Perhaps you should try the other cheek.”</p><p>You do, but Cassandra grabs you by the wrist before you can lift your hand. She gives you a look, “Are you a spirit?”</p><p>“A moron, presumably.” Cullen rubs his temples, not even bothering to look your way. His lack of concern for your well-being could not be more apparent.</p><p>“Friggin’ rude.” You try not to look hurt about it, as you avert your gaze away from Cullen and towards the other voices of reason at the table. “Listen, there’s been a mistake. Big time mistake, OK? Like threat-level-midnight levels of mistakery. I don’t belong here. I’m from a different—time, I guess. The future, one might say. Except—”</p><p><em>None of you people are supposed to exist. My time is not your future. You aren’t real</em>.</p><p>“The future?” says Lavellan. “Are you saying you traveled through time to be here?”</p><p>“Well, no.”</p><p>
  <em>I just wished really, really hard to be somewhere else—more like the south of France, or like Venice, or maybe even Prague—or I don’t know—Morocco. But now I’m here.</em>
</p><p>“I’m from another—”<em> Dimension. </em></p><p>You don’t want to break the algorithm, or whatever, but it’s better than outright lying.</p><p>“I’m from another world,” you state.</p><p>One second ago, you were wine drunk in the casino somewhere in the MGM Grand, just absolutely killing the vibe and crying over something stupid as security tried to fan you away towards the slot machines where all the neon lights and modulated sound effects would presumably drown out your wailings. And now you’re here. Stuck in a video game that shouldn’t even be real. Stuck in a video game that you haven’t touched in literally three years.</p><p>“I was in Vegas, OK? I was crying because I spilled my drink, and I ended up wishing so bad it never happened, only to end up here.”</p><p>Josephine arches a brow, “Vegas? I’ve never heard of such a province.”</p><p>“You’ve never heard of it because you’ve never been there,” you say, pausing to consider it. “Great place though. Low taxes, cheap housing—good food. You would like it, Josephine.”</p><p>“How do you know her name<em>?”</em> asks Leliana again. “How do you know any of us?”</p><p>“You’re all—fictional. None of you are supposed to be real,” you state, and you wonder if the candidness is because you’re still wine drunk, or if it’s because you want them to trust you as much as you already trust them. <em>I know your stories too, but if I say that, you’ll just think I’m crazy</em>. “You’re characters from a video game.”</p><p>“A video game?” Cullen just looks at you with that same old scrunched up look of disdain.</p><p>“It’s like—Wicked Grace,” you explain in layman’s terms. “Except it’s much more complex. <em>You</em> are the game.”</p><p>Cassandra lowers her gaze, “And we’re just supposed to believe you’re another omniscient force sent to us by the Maker?”</p><p>“No Maker—just coincidence,” you say, feeling dizzy. “I…”</p><p>You know this room. <em>I’m in Haven</em>, you think, but what you saw on screen couldn’t possibly do it justice in real life. It smells like smoke and ink in here, heavy on your chest. For whatever reason, it gives you the impetus to want to cry again. <em>This can’t be real</em>. You just can’t believe you’re here. You can’t believe you’re staring at these faces—you can’t believe these faces are staring back at you, still wondering who the hell you are.</p><p>You’re not sure if it’s the liquor or the fact that you’ve just throttled full-speed through multiple dimensions (possibly dreams, possibly death) to get here—the only thing you are sure of is you’re queasy.</p><p>“I think I’m going to throw up,” you state.</p><p>“Ugh. Someone get her a bucket,” says Cassandra.</p><p>Cullen does in fact hand you one, where you promptly heave your insides out.</p><p>“She’s drunk,” he says, and gee—<em>thanks captain obvious. </em>Or knight commander obvious. Whatever. The nomenclature doesn’t really register when you’re in a different dimension. “Are we really going to take advice from a drunkard?”</p><p>“I can help you,” you whisper into the bucket. “I can tell you exactly what Corypheus is planning next.”</p><p>Lavellan arches a brow at you, “Who’s Corypheus?”</p><p>She stares at you. You stare back at her. <em>Oh</em>, you think, stupidly. They haven’t reached that part of the game yet.</p><p>With a bit more boldness, you ask, “Well, that depends. Have you decided whether you’re siding with the Templars or the Mages?”</p><p>The silence is agonizing.</p><p>“Lock her up.”</p><p>“Wait—I can tell the future! I can—” You realize only then they think you’re not just a spy, but a heretic. “Haven’s going to fall! Corypheus is going to attack—and then you’ll all be doomed! People are going to die—hello? THE MAGES ARE ALLYING WITH THE TEVINTERS. IN REDCLIFFE. THEY’VE TAKEN OVER TEAGAN’S CASTLE. Is anyone listening to me? PEOPLE ARE GOING TO—<em>”</em></p><p>The rest of your shrieks are squashed by Cassandra’s thick, bulging biceps as she sufficiently headlocks you with her arms and drags you down the hall, where you pass by another familiar face. (Hello, Mother Giselle.) Down the stairs of the dungeons and into a cell you go, where the cage promptly slams and locks from the other side. It’s pitch black here, nothing but the blaze of candlelight.</p><p>“Please,” you say, looking at Cassandra through the bars. “I want to go home.”</p><p>She gives you a scathing look and leaves without another word.</p><p>*</p><p>Well, the cage is…homey to say the least.</p><p>You’ve never been in prison, so you don’t have any sort of baseline expectation for what one would look like. You only vaguely recall the dungeons in the game, and it wasn’t even until your fifth playthrough that you realized you could eavesdrop on the conversations taking place between inmates, and by that time, you were burnt out.</p><p>Your only other knowledge was the time you binge-watched <em>Beyond Scared Straight</em> when you had the flu, which sufficiently scared the living shit out of you, but nothing could’ve prepared you for the real deal.</p><p>It’s dark, it stinks, and you have to sit around and smell your own chamber pot. They feed you three times a day, but you’re not even really hungry, not with the stink of urine and shit and your last memory of Vegas still lingering, which is somehow worse than the former two. But the worst part?</p><p>You’re alone.</p><p>And you know that. You start weeping without warning. You start crying because you’re alone in a foreign world with foreign people who you don’t actually understand. Because there’s seeing them on the television screen, and then there’s meeting them—flesh and blood. Being dragged off the table by one of them and shoved into a cell, forced to rot away until the ends of time.</p><p><em>Being misunderstood and unloved</em>.</p><p>When you were Lavellan, Trevelyan, Cadash, and Adaar it didn’t matter how you reacted because they learned to love you. They learned to rely on you. <em>You had the mark and they had no choice</em>.</p><p>What do you have now? <em>Nothing</em>. Nothing but a sequin party dress with a face-full of makeup that’s been overspent—mascara bleeding down your cheeks. Some vague premonitions of the future, but they don’t even seem to want that. Which is a rightful shame because they could very well ignore all of the <em>dying</em> and <em>war</em> if they just listened to what you had to say.</p><p>Sure, you could’ve gone about it in a more elegant way, but it’s not like you asked to be throttled into this world without warning. You’re not perfect.</p><p>Alone, dark, and scared—you start wondering if you’re better off dead. You start wondering if dying here means returning to the real world—your world. You start wondering if you’re actually brave enough to go that far.</p><p>Needless to say, they have Solas check on you around this time. The dude has prying eyes that goes beyond the scope of Haven, so you don’t dare do anything out of place when he’s around. Despite his generally unpleasant disposition, you know what he’s capable of. <em>You know who he is</em>. But for the most part, he doesn’t badger you or inundate you with any questions. Just the standard <em>are you comfortable? Do you require water? Can you tell me more about the world you’re from?</em></p><p>You never really had a keen interest in the guy, but he’s the one who probably understands who you are most around here. You know exactly who he is and he seems to know exactly who you are too. For whatever reason, this gives you even less incentive to call him out for his insincerities.</p><p>“Eat,” he tells you one day—you’re not sure if it’s morning or night after all this time locked on. But you’re still wearing your filthy Vegas dress, quivering from the cold even though there’s no wind. “Your body will fail you.”</p><p><em>Thanks for the reminder, wolf boy</em>, you think somewhat bitterly, but when he pushes the tray of food a little closer, you feel your stomach clench, and you start eating. It tastes good, and only in the aftermath of chowing down do you realize he’s probably added some kind of spell to open your appetite.</p><p>*</p><p>After about a week of living in the cell with the minimal amount of supervision and with a little push from Solas, Cassandra comes and releases you. You don’t complain, you don’t whine, and you don’t make a fuss about it.</p><p>She sits you down in a smaller room this time. Cozier, too. There are three beds in here. You always wondered if they bunked up together, but you’re too scared to ask. <em>One wrong question and you’ll end up in that cell again</em>. The thought of it alone is enough to render you completely silent as you stare at the two others in the room--Leliana and Cullen. They look like they both have places to be. Better places.</p><p>“Talk,” says Cassandra.</p><p>You rub your wrists, completely bloodied and blistered from the rusty shackles. You're suddenly very glad for modern medicine and the fact that you got your tetanus shot. <em>This is real</em>, you think. These wounds, <em>these pains</em>. These are tangible things that you can point to and touch as you wonder something else.</p><p><em>How do I get home</em>?</p><p>“I’m from another world,” you start. “You don’t have to believe me, but it’s true.”</p><p>*</p><p>You grew up in a small two-bedroom apartment with mom and dad. You had loving parents—and a loving childhood—and the extent of your trauma was that one unfortunate time you walked in on your parents doing the deed, but at least that meant they loved each other enough to try. You went through a teenage angst phase that didn’t last very long because you had nothing to be angsty about, and then you went to college and got a job working in finance.</p><p>You busted your ass working eighty-hour work weeks, got hooked on Adderall to stay awake, dated the sleazy finance bros you worked with because you didn’t have time to date outside your circle, and found yourself completely burnt out at the ripe old age of twenty-seven.</p><p>Mom got cancer. You didn’t have time to take care of her. She kept the pain hidden until it was too late. Then it was hospice care and learning to say goodbye before you were ready. Dad picked up drinking after that. He drank himself into an early grave and for two years you were completely numb, cycling through the days without really thinking. You ate—and sometimes you forgot what you were eating. You talked—and sometimes you forgot who you were talking to. What was said, what was done—none of it mattered.</p><p>Then one day you woke up and decided to quit your job. A brilliant move, except all the bad habits stuck. You were still addicted to Adderall, shitty finance bros, and staying up until the late hours of 4am in the morning. Turns out extricating yourself was way more difficult than you thought it would be.</p><p>You played a copious amount of video games during this time. Not your best moment, but you needed the escape from reality anyway. You binged through three-month’s worth of Dragon Age, starting with Origins—Awakening, <em>Witch Hunt</em>. Then Dragon Age 2, and Dragon Age Inquisition. You read fanfiction, commissioned fanart of Alistair, made a whole Twitter account dedicated to—who else—Alistair.</p><p>And then you met a guy.</p><p>A guy you very much liked. He was good for you. Kind, sweet, and patient. He owned a pet grooming shop in an expensive neighborhood and earned a decent penny from all the lonely housewives who had nothing else better to do than get themselves toy poodles when it was the trend. He took care of you—cooked you dinners. And then he asked you to marry him, and you agreed.</p><p>You leave out the part where he cheated on you.</p><p>It was just a mistake the first time. A stranger in a bar who was making googly eyes.</p><p>When you were eight-years-old, you told yourself that would be your greatest dealbreaker. <em>I could never be with someone who cheated</em>, you’d said, and it came with all the wisdom of being eight-years-old and having two loving parents who never <em>ever</em> cheated on one another. <em>You don’t get it—you’re too young to understand</em>, you’d tell your eight-year-old self. Life isn’t perfect. People make mistakes. They grow from them. You give them that option, and you learn to move past it. Cheating isn’t the end-all be-all. There are worse things in life to be afraid of.</p><p>These are things you believed until the second time.</p><p>That was with your best friend—someone you’d grown up with and held your hand through all your burdens. Someone who was at your mother’s side when she was going through chemo, someone who helped you with all the financial burdens of having to plan a funeral. You loved her—you thought you did, at least.</p><p>It wasn’t a mistake, you learned. He’d fallen in love with her. And who wouldn’t? She was perfect. She was the best friend you could ever have—everything you wanted to be, except it was also everything you weren’t. She was put-together, caring, and had her life in order. She was an ambitious sous chef at a two-Michelin star restaurant, loved baking in her free time, and was immaculately clean. She went to the gym, had a sick body, and could hold down three bottles of soju without getting even a little tipsy.</p><p>You couldn’t even be mad.</p><p>You got over it. You forgave them. And then you put aside all your apprehensions when she asked you to be her maid of honor.</p><p>You were the one who planned the trip to Vegas. You thought the gambling and drinking and Adderall would get your mind off things—except they didn’t. They only exacerbated everything you felt. You weren’t over it. <em>You so weren’t over it</em>. But they thought you were. Why wouldn’t they?</p><p>You’d smiled at them and said <em>of course I’m over it</em>.</p><p>And then you saw them kissing on the floor of the MGM Grand and wished so bad you were somewhere else—you wished so bad you were someone else—and your wishes came true.</p><p>*</p><p>For a while, they just stare at you.</p><p>You haven’t even really gotten to the nitty-gritty of what happens in-game, but to be fair, they never asked. You wonder if you should start (it’s a lot to go through), but they look like they can’t even process your life story, so you decide to lay low for a while and wait for an answer.</p><p>“She’s telling the truth,” says Leliana, rising from her seat. “I can see it in her eyes.”</p><p>Cullen is much less taken with the thought, “Oh, so we’re just going to take what she says at face value?”</p><p>“She could prove valuable, commander.” Cassandra’s staring at you with those <em>the-Maker-must’ve-sent-you</em> eyes, and hey—you’ll take what you can get. “If she has the gift of foresight—”</p><p>“—gift of foresight?” He <em>snorts</em>. “You’re not seriously considering—<em>oh</em>.” The smug smile on his face dissipates into a frown. “You actually believe it.”</p><p>The three of them continue bickering and for a while, you just watch them in silence. Your spirit’s completely deflated, especially after offering them your pitiful life story on a platter. They don’t seem keen on asking you anymore questions anyway, so you’ve probably outlived your uses for the time being.</p><p>When the bickering dies down, Leliana is the first to come to your side. She studies you for a moment.</p><p>“You need a bath,” she states.</p><p>You expel a breath of relief.</p><p>*</p><p>Except, it’s not really a bath—just a bin of cold water that you sit in as Leliana scrubs you clean. Well, <em>scrubbing</em> would be putting it mildly. She basically strips your skin until it’s pink and raw and there’s nothing left except the sting of soap in wounds. She’s careful around your wrists, where the blisters are still fresh, but leaves little mercy to be found with the rest of your body.</p><p>She doesn’t say much either. Just lets you wash your own hair with what’s left before drying you off and setting out clothes for you to wear—basically the leftover hunter’s armor that no one else is using. <em>At least it’s in my favorite color</em>, you think, admiring the contrast of blue to seafoam green. <em>The little things</em>.</p><p>Once you’re done, she ushers you out to the tents where the inquisition soldiers are training under Cullen’s watchful eye.</p><p>From what you can surmise, Josephine can’t attend to the visiting dignitaries with you and your black cloud of a presence. Cassandra's busy. And Leliana—well, she’d be your last pick of the bunch. And with Lavellan constantly out and about, that sticks you with lovely commander <em>Cullen Rutherford</em>.</p><p>“Where’s the inquisitor?” You ask, as Leliana drops you off.</p><p>Cullen squints at you, “Who?”</p><p>“Oh.” <em>Oops, almost manifested destiny right then and there</em>. “I mean Lavellan. Where is she?”</p><p>“The Hinterlands.”</p><p>You’re starting to feel a little more like your normal self, now that you’re wearing proper clothes. “Huh. That’s good. That means we’re still in the early game,” you say to no one in particular, as you follow him towards the back of the tents where the other soldiers are.</p><p>He gives you a look like <em>I won’t even pretend to understand what that means</em> and you offer him a weak little smile like <em>I think that’s for the better. </em>For now, you’re really only intent on surviving, and if that means you have to wait a few days for Lavellan to return so she can open up a massive rift to the netherworld where you belong, then so be it.</p><p>“So what does an NPC do when the protagonist isn’t around?” You ask, and it earns you a glare from Cullen again, who shouts at a poor recruit who isn’t even holding his sword right. <em>Angry dude</em>, you think, shrugging. It’s hard to believe this is the guy you romanced in three playthroughs, but then again, he always was the most objectively good looking of the options outside of Cassandra and Josephine. (Your favorite had been Alistair, but that was a different time--and a different game.)</p><p>For a while, he just watches them, well, train. With the eyes of a hawk. Offering words of wisdom to the younger recruits—scolding the older ones for not knowing any better. You don’t feel any particular way about it, only that he seems like a know-it-all.</p><p><em>Annoying</em>.</p><p>*</p><p>When night falls and Cullen relieves you from his service, you head to the tavern and get yourself a nightcap. You earn a couple funny looks, by virtue of having followed around the commander all day like a dog, but other than that, no one really spares you a second glance. You have your story—and so do they. The only difference is they have a reason for being here, and you…</p><p>“The shine’s all gone. Dark in there—all smudged up.” Sera beams at you, leaning against the counter with her elbow. “You know how to shoot an arrow?”</p><p>You blink at her, and instinctively shake your head.</p><p>“Swing a sword?”</p><p>You shake your head again.</p><p>“How to fight?”</p><p>And again.</p><p>A pause comes, as she sizes you up, “You pray?”</p><p><em>I used to. </em>You shake your head.</p><p>“Huh. Somehow that makes you the most interesting person here,” she says, taking your tankard of ale and downing the contents. “Name’s Sera.”</p><p>Turns out Sera will become your first friend.</p><p>She asks you a bit about your old life but doesn’t pry past pleasantries. You don’t really understand half of what she’s saying, but you think that might be for the better. Everything is easier when you leave certain mysteries up for interpretation.</p><p>When night falls, she offers you one last piece of wisdom: “Don’t be so sulky, alright? Gonna cheese up the air the way you’re muckin’ around.” She pinches your cheeks a bit until you’re forced to smile from the pain of being squeezed so hard. “There ya go. Pretty.”</p><p>She runs off and you’re left with bruised cheeks.</p><p>*</p><p>Life goes on. You learn Lavellan’s decided to go off to meet Redcliffe’s mages. You decide, of course, to mention in passing that she’s going to offer to make them allies. You don’t really think much of it until Cullen stops in his tracks—and this is before he really makes it to the training grounds where his men are waiting.</p><p>“She—<em>what</em>?”</p><p>“She’s going to offer allyship with them,” you tell him, and decide to press pause on explaining al the time traveling theatrics that lead up to that point. <em>We’ve already settled on me being the time traveler around here, and that isn’t even really true</em>. “What’s up?”</p><p>He takes off back to the holdings but pauses midstep.</p><p>He returns, grabbing your wrist, and drags you along afterwards.</p><p>*</p><p>Next thing you know you’re being dragged off to Redcliffe Castle on horse, which is a problem because—1) <em>You don’t know how to ride a horse</em>. 2) You’re pretty sure you’re not going to make it there in time. 3) You have no idea how far along Lavellan is in her time-travel schemes.</p><p><em>Whatever, </em>you think. <em>On the bright side, at least I can finally meet Varric</em>.</p><p><em>I hope he likes me</em>.</p><p>Cullen looks upset. Well, he always looks upset, but this is new level of upset, even for him. He rides ahead, cutting down demons and bandits without pause. <em>Yeesh</em>—<em>remind me not to piss him off</em>, you think, as he clears out another bandit holding nestled underneath some cliffs. He doesn’t say much to you, and you don’t say much to him either.</p><p>You’ve established an equilibrium of relative peace.</p><p>As his ward, you’d expect to be helping him remove his armor when the day is done, but he’s incredibly finicky about the whole thing, so you don’t bother asking anymore. The man basically sleeps in his armor anyway, so that leads you to believe two things: 1) he has severe control issues and 2) he doesn’t trust you.</p><p>Well, there’s not much you can do about that, as you continue down the road towards Redcliffe. You look up at the sky, so vast and looming it could swallow you whole. You’ve never seen the sky like this, not without artificial lights drowning out its beauty. You think it might just be the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.</p><p>“Why did you bring me with you?” You ask.</p><p>“Because you now fall under the umbrella of my responsibility,” is his reply, practiced and weary as ever.</p><p>You shrug, not wanting to pry too deep for answers you don’t really want. The truth is, you don’t really care. You thought you might’ve hated this whole road trip business—without any clean showers, bathrooms, or beds to sleep in, but you’re sort of loving it. You’re sort of <em>thriving</em>, which is to say you never thought you’d enjoy the view so much. You’re not doing anything relevant—you’re not operating at a million miles an hour, and it’s pretty frickin’…</p><p>“Awesome,” you say, staring out at the dying sun.</p><p>The sky looks like a painting, like someone’s taken a bucket of dye and tossed it across the horizon to see where it sticks.</p><p>Cullen glances at you once before turning back to tend to the fire.</p><p>*</p><p>You arrive on the fourth day and all your worst fears are realized. <em>It’s too late</em>.</p><p>Alistair is on his way out, alongside all his guards and men (no Queen Anora, no Hero of Ferelden, so one can only assume…)</p><p>Cullen dismounts from his horse and ties it to a post, and you follow suit, scurrying behind him and pinching the cape of his armor to keep track of him among the gathering crowd. Alistair is speaking to who you can only assume is Teagen, and it isn’t until you’re standing three feet away, watching Cullen bow before him, that you realize—</p><p>“Alistair,” his name escapes your parted lips breathlessly.</p><p>“<em>King Alistair</em>,” says Cullen, nudging you hard in the ribs. When you don’t bow, he kicks you in the back of the knee and forces you to kneel.</p><p>Your cheeks flush red as Alistair asks you both to rise.</p><p>“King Alistair. Hi,” you say, smiling.</p><p>“Hello,” he says in return, looking sort of amused, but also kind of pissed. <em>Oh right. He just banished Fiona and the mages from Ferelden—ohhhhhhhh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no. So much to say, and yet so much I cannot</em>. “Do I know you?”</p><p>Your mind draws a blank, as you meet his gaze.</p><p>“A friend, commander?” asks Alistair.</p><p>Cullen sighs, “She’s—"</p><p>“I’m in love with you,” you blurt out.</p><p>Alistair laughs a little. “Get in line,” is his response, flippant as ever.</p><p>He winks at you before taking off with his people and you’re left sighing—and wondering, of course, if it’s too late to smuggle yourself in his carriage and be towed away with those beautiful white stallions.</p><p>“I will marry that man if it’s the last thing I ever do,” you say, but Cullen just drags you away by the scruff of your neck as you stare longingly at the one character you’ve always loved.</p><p>*</p><p>Lavellan gets in trouble, which gets most of the heat off your shoulders for—<em>well</em>—whatever it is that happened between you and Alistair.</p><p>For a while, you just watch Cullen and Cassandra give her the verbal trashing of her lifetime, which must suck because Cullen and Cassandra are both very good at that. <em>I know what it’s like, sweetheart</em>, you think, staring at her. She might look completely resilient about it, but you can tell it’s wearing on her. Slowly. Even the most tenacious winds lose speed after hitting enough mountains.</p><p>By the time you return to Haven, it’s mostly quiet between them. Cullen makes some remark about taking a bath and you take the time to check on the inquisitor, who’s sulking in her room alone.</p><p>“For what it’s worth, I think you made a good choice,” you tell her.</p><p>She looks away, sighing. “Nothing is that simple.”</p><p><em>Oh, trust me. If you played Origins and DA2—then you’d—oh, what’s the point</em>. “Don’t sulk too long,” you tell her, hands clammy on the knob of the door.</p><p>“What happens next?” She asks, quietly. “If you really do have the gift of foresight, tell me.”</p><p><em>It’s not really a gift. </em>“Well, if my memory serves me correctly, you’re going to close the mother of all rifts—and then…Corypheus is going to attack Haven. Most of you will get through by the skin of your teeth, but the rest of you will die.”</p><p>Lavellan just stares at you, “And this…Corypheus—who is he?”</p><p>“He—” You consider it for a moment. “I think you’re better off asking Varric about him.”</p><p>“Varric?”</p><p>You nod.</p><p>You don’t stay long afterwards. After however many days on the road, all you want to do is return to your bunk in the cellar with the kitchen girls and nurses and <em>sleep</em>. But on the way there, you find Cullen mulling over the war table, looking very stressed and annoyed at it, as if all the markers have offended him.</p><p>You <em>would</em> move past it, except you’re not so heartless and cruel. Seeing as you’ll be around for the foreseeable future, you decide to rein back your pride and approach him, closing the door behind you.</p><p>“What’s with that look,” you say, dispensing of all formalities. It’s late, you’re tired, and he doesn’t seem keen on wasting time, so you try and get to the point. “Why do you look so mad?”</p><p>He rubs his temples, “I’m not…mad.”</p><p>“Is that your final answer?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>You consider it—and then you shrug, reaching for the knob of the door. As soon as he sees that you’re about to leave, he <em>sighs</em>. “We’ve allied ourselves with an entity that was just allied with Tevinter,” he states, and it’s the same stuff he’s been espousing at Lavellan all day.</p><p>“They’re mages, Cullen. You’re speaking to them as if they’re one thing—as if they’re not even human beings.”</p><p>But you wonder if you’re being just as cruel. You might’ve played the games, but it’s not like you lived through the horrors of the Mage Rebellion—you looked at Kirkwall from the outside in, with the lens of someone who had all the privilege of dispensing their wisdom, but without any of the learning pains of accruing them.</p><p>“You need to trust your—leader.”</p><p>“Leader?”</p><p>“Lavellan. Whatever,” you say. <em>She’s basically your leader at this point</em>. “Nothing will work unless you believe in her decisions. Even if you don’t like them.”</p><p>He takes a seat, tapping his fingers against the map, “I had a leader who made decisions I didn’t like—and I supported her anyway. I wanted to be a good soldier. Do you know where that led me?”</p><p><em>I do</em>.</p><p>He falls silent.</p><p>His eyes are full of regret, probably from having said too much. You take a seat next to him, studying the map and realizing how big it looks in person—so much bigger than in your game. There are tears in the edges, paint chips, and sun stains. When you run your fingers across the seas, you can feel the parts that’ve been wet before. The parts that’ve dried. The parts that’ve survived all those years of wears and tears.</p><p>“This isn’t just a game,” he says, quietly. “These are real lives on the line—people. They’re depending on us. They look to us for guidance. One wrong decision means we betray their trust—and their lives.”</p><p>You don’t know what to say to that.</p><p><em>Everything was always easier in-game, when it was all balancing the good and bad. What’s one life to a hundred others? </em>That was something you could use as a scale. But when you’re looking at flesh, blood, and bones in person—it’s a different ball game.</p><p>Cullen wrinkles his brows. He’s much more handsome in person—but his flaws are just as apparent too. The scar on his chin is more jagged, <em>deeper too</em>. And his eyes look pained, as if he’s fighting some nonstop battle with himself that he’s yet to reconcile with. You always knew he was a tortured soul, but you just never knew how much.</p><p>You reach out and take his hand, offering it a squeeze because that’s all you can do. You may know everything, but the truth is—<em>you know nothing</em>. You don’t anything about holding a sword, fighting another man, and fighting a war. You know nothing about sacrifice, watching your friends die because of your decisions, and making the sort of world-changing decisions that could affect everyone’s future. For better or for worse.</p><p>He looks a little surprised at the gesture, then sort of pleased when he realizes you’re still listening. Neither of you really mention the implications, mostly because they aren’t there yet. For now, you’re just two friends trying to find common ground.</p><p>But then—</p><p>Your fingers start going cold. They’re vanishing from the tip.</p><p>You pull away, staring at them, “What’s happening?”</p><p>He rises to his feet, staring at your hands. He’s trying to make sense of it, but it’s not like he can when <em>you</em> don’t even know what’s happening.</p><p>“I’m scared, Cullen,” you whisper, watching your legs vanish before your very eyes.</p><p><em>I’m disappearing</em>.</p><p>He tries to grab what’s left of you, but you’re already gone—and there’s nothing left in his arms, not even a whisper of your existence. Just the warmth of your palm from where you held him only moments ago.</p><p>*</p><p>You land on poker table with a <em>bang</em>.</p><p>It alarms almost every patron in the gambling hall. Chips go flying, security wrestles you off the table, someone asks what the fuck you’re doing—and what the fuck you’re wearing. And you’re kicking and fighting until they have you headlocked and choked out. It isn’t until you’re stuffed back into your hotel room that you scramble for your phone, where you find a hundred text messages asking where you are.</p><p>You ignore them, open up Safari—and google <em>Dragon Age</em>.</p><p>Except, there’s no record of Dragon Age <em>the game</em> anywhere online.</p><p>In fact, when you do a Google search, you get a question on Yahoo Answers that says something to the tune of “how old do dragons live” and the top answer with a whopping two upvotes being: “I would know if they were real.” You Google every conceivable name you can find. <em>Dragon Age Origins, Dragon Age 2, Dragon Age Inquisition</em>—and nope. Nothing. There’s absolutely no record of anything.</p><p>The game simply does not exist.</p><p>You grab yourself a pillow and scream into it.</p><p>And then you take a breath, return to your phone, and type in the words <em>Cullen Rutherford</em>.</p><p>
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<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“How could we afford to think otherwise? Your information has been correct. Right about much, and wrong about little else. Your story, however implausible, adds up. You have acted as a just ally, albeit—” Leliana pauses, studying your form. “Unwittingly.”</p><p>“Oh, wittingly. Definitely wittingly,” you say.</p>
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  <em>Cullen Rutherford was a second-century war general. He was a central figure during Lavellan Rebellion …</em>
</p><p>“No. Fucking. Way,” you hiss. “Lavellan Rebellion, my ass.”</p><p>But it doesn't stop you from googling her name anyway.</p><p><em>Lavellan, also referred to as Lavellan of the Free Marches</em> or <em>Lavellan the Great</em>, <em>is the leader of the Lavellan Rebellion. She was born in 204 A.D., and was succeeded by her son …</em></p><p>“No.”</p><p>None of the words are processing. Neither are the numbers. Or the years. None of this makes any actual sense.</p><p>“This is bullshit,” you say, slapping yourself across the face, only to feel the sting of pain and none of the revelations that should follow.</p><p>You google Leliana, Josephine, and Cassandra in quick succession and find them all with encyclopedia-sized Wikipedia pages. "Are you fucking kidding me," you mutter, feeling the early onset of a headache.</p><p>You chuck your phone across the room, where it bounces off the wall and onto your bed with a soft <em>plop.</em></p><p>Your phone starts buzzing and you scramble over to it like a sad sloth, only to see it’s your best friend and bride-in-waiting Andie beaming on the caller ID. You pick up right away.</p><p>“Hey—where’d you go?” She says, words slurring in the receiver.</p><p>“Andie. Question. What do you know about … Lavellan?”</p><p>“Is this a trick question?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Ugh, ask someone else. You know I’m not religious.”</p><p>“Religious?”</p><p>“All that Maker stuff? <em>Yeesh. </em>No thank you.” A snort comes from the other line. “Why are you asking, though?"</p><p>You rise to your feet, feeling dizzy. <em>OK, so this is not just history. This is a whole world order. </em>You head into the bathroom, where you find yourself relieved to see a running toilet. <em>At least if I have to vomit, it won’t be in a bucket this time</em>. (Truly, the little things.)</p><p>“I can promise you this is not a joke,” you say, peeling off your coat and dropping it on the floor with a <em>splat</em>. You follow with your undercoat, and your trousers, until you’re in nothing but your smallclothes.</p><p>“But … it sure sounds like one. Not knowing Lavellan … that’s like not knowing who Jesus is.”</p><p>“Jesus?”</p><p>“Uh, yeah. Jesus.” When you don’t answer immediately, you hear her take a heavy breath. “You do know who Jesus is, right?”</p><p>“I know who Jesus is,” you say, somewhat defensively.</p><p>She pauses and lowers her voice, suddenly filled with concern and trepidation, “What’s wrong with you? Did you hit your head?”</p><p>“No—<em>yes</em>. Yes! I hit my head—that’s it.” You card your fingers through your hair, studying your outfit in the reflection of the mirror and realizing you look like you’re cosplaying a thief in the night. “I’m fine. Ran into a wall, one might say. Had a divine revelation. Decided to—I don’t know. Go to church or something.”</p><p>“But all this Maker stuff is like … a cult.”</p><p>“Well, one man's cult ... is another man's family, no?"</p><p>“<em>Ugh</em>. Why can’t you just do something normal? Like, drop acid and call it a day? Why does it always have to be this—whole life change?”</p><p>You’re itching to change the subject.</p><p>“Anyway, what did you wanna talk about?” You ask, tossing your smallclothes to the ground and shuffling back into your bedroom, where you scan your suitcase for a dress. You’d left your best sequin dress in Thedas, and you’re not exactly sure when you’re going to see the returns on that.</p><p>“What did I wanna talk about? We were worried, you idiot! Michael said he saw you dragged off the casino floor by security,” she says, lowering her voice to a whisper. “We thought they threw you into Vegas jail.”</p><p>“Oh, they did. My room, it turns out,” you reply. “I’m fine and well, as you can hear.”</p><p>“That’s good.”</p><p>“It is.” You pause, waiting for her to say more. “Why are you being so weird?”</p><p>“MichaelandIareplanningtoshotgunthe weddinghereinVegas.”</p><p>You pause, “Wait, what?”</p><p>“Sorry. We’re—we’re gonna shotgun the wedding in Vegas.” She sounds a little quieter now. <em>Always so considerate and kind</em>. “Yeah.” Her voice is meeker this time, as she finds herself another space on the casino floor with less bustle and people. “You only get married in Vegas once, right? Our barn house wedding still stands, but—we figured it just felt right. It’s all pomp and ceremony. We already have our wedding certificate. Nothing serious, y’know?”</p><p><em>No, you wouldn’t know</em>.</p><p>Only problem is that’s what <em>you</em> always wanted. To get married in Vegas. All cheese and thrills and none of the ceremony and over-thinking. This is your wedding. You called dibs on it when you were in high school. You—</p><p>“OK. I’m on board. Are you thinking Graceland?” You ask, fishing through your suitcase only to find one very glaringly sleeveless <em>white</em> dress. “Shit, I only have white."</p><p>“What happened to your sequin dress?”</p><p>“You don’t want to know,” you say, hands clammy.</p><p>It’s a cute dress, but this is a wedding and you’re not exactly trying to upstage the bride—especially when she’s marrying your ex-boyfriend. The optics are just … weird.</p><p>“I also didn’t think I’d be attending a wedding this weekend. Crash one—maybe. I just thought we were gonna get drunk and gamble.”</p><p>“Well, I don’t care. <em>I’m not like other brides</em>,” she says, mockingly. “Just get down here and we’ll figure out the details, alright?”</p><p>“Sure,” you promise, but as soon as you hang up, you feel a wedge of dread in your chest.</p><p>
  <em>Fuck, this is what I always wanted. But it’s not about me—it’s about her. </em>
</p><p>But now she gets the best of both worlds. A beautiful wedding <em>and</em> a wedding that was supposed to be yours. The Vegas thing was always <em>your</em> thing, but then again, it’s not like you have the sole namesake to cheese it up in Vegas.</p><p>You put on the dress, put on your makeup, and take a look at yourself in the mirror.</p><p>Sure, the dress is on the risqué side—but that’s the allure of the Vegas strip, isn’t it? <em>Dress unapologetically, marry a geriatric, and gamble away your life savings</em>. It’s all so kitschy and gauche, the stuff of frat bro dreams.</p><p>A crack forms in the mirror—harsh and black.</p><p>You stare at it until it rips open like a vacuum, and before you can comprehend what’s happening, the world begins to vanish.</p><p>You’re swimming in the darkness. <em>I’m not breathing</em>, you think, as you stare down and see that there are at least an infinite number of black holes below you. Swarming like tadpoles in a pond. Something explodes miles below, but there’s no sound to follow. No indication that something had been ablaze to begin with. You open your mouth to scream, scrambling to get out, but—</p><p>The colors swarm you whole and when you blink, you find yourself sitting in the middle of a chapel.</p><p><em>This is Graceland</em>, you think, staring up at the Elvis impersonator standing front and center.</p><p>This is Elvis in his late-stage decay, all diabetic and frumpy. He’s drinking his afternoon coffee, having his afternoon cigar, staring at you—probably wondering where the hell you dropped in from. He mutters something like “I don’t get paid enough for this shit,” as you vanish before his very eyes.</p><p>The darkness consumes you whole and—</p><p>*</p><p>You crash <em>hard</em>.</p><p>Onto another table, except the markers go flying in a bigger room. They echo when they hit the floor. Eyes closed, <em>already sore</em>, you know what this means. You know where you are.</p><p><em>This is Skyhold</em>.</p><p>“You’re back,” says a familiar voice.</p><p>You open your eyes and see Cullen staring back at you alongside Leliana. The latter gives you a curious look, as she checks out your new look.</p><p>“Nice dress,” she remarks, somewhat flippantly. A curl of a smile forms on her face, as she helps you onto two feet. (You pluck away a particularly stubborn rhino marker implanted in your stomach and toss it back onto the table with a grunt.)</p><p>Cullen looks … relieved. “A lot has changed since you’ve been gone.”</p><p>“How long has it been?"</p><p>“A month,” he says.</p><p>“Oh, that’s great. Only ten minutes have passed in my world,” you reply, rubbing your temples as you meet him in your high heels. “Somehow just as much has changed.”</p><p>“You were right,” says Leliana. “Corypheus attacked Haven after we sealed the rift. Our commander managed to evacuate the stronghold before his arrival.”</p><p>“I’m surprised you’re being so forthcoming about this,” you say.</p><p>“How could we afford to think otherwise? Your information has been correct. Right about much, and wrong about little else. Your story, however implausible, adds up. You have acted as a just ally, albeit—” She pauses, studying your form. “Unwittingly.”</p><p>“Oh, wittingly. Definitely wittingly,” you say, coming to the window.</p><p>It’s snowing outside and the glass feels nice against your hot cheeks. “I want that for the record.” You pull away, take a breath, and meet their gazes. <em>Since you’re all going to be in my history books.</em> “By the way, you two—no, not just you two. I need Cassandra. And Lavellan here. And Josephine. There’s something you need to know.”</p><p>Cullen and Leliana exchange glances.</p><p>*</p><p>You tell them everything you know about Corypheus.</p><p>And then you tell them everything about your world.</p><p>“Everything you do now is going to affect my life—my <em>actual</em> life,” you say, suddenly very aware of how stupid you look in your bodycon dress and strappy blue heels. “My actual world. Lavellan—” You meet her gaze and find a perfect poker face staring you back. “You’re going to be … <em>oof</em>, you’re not gonna wanna hear it. But you’re going to be elevated into the status of legends. Like—Jesus Christ levels of legend. Like—”</p><p>“Andraste?” says Cullen.</p><p>You snap your fingers, smiling at him. “Thank you. <em>Exactly</em>. You’re going to be like Andraste in my world. My future. Your future, I guess, technically.” When she doesn’t respond, you go on. “Hope you’re religious.”</p><p>“I’m not.” “She isn’t.” Lavellan and Cassandra answer simultaneously, looking at one another before looking away.</p><p>You make the executive decision to leave out the weird, culty part of the story. <em>They don’t need to know that, right? They probably already know they’re culty</em>. <em>They’re called the Inquisition for god’s sake</em>.</p><p>“Anyway, this is everything I know, so.” You start towards the door, vaguely aware they’re all still staring at you. “I’m going to take a nap now. And—when I wake up, hopefully I’ll be back in Vegas. Attending a shotgun wedding. Or, I don’t know. Maybe I’ll be the one getting married. To fat Elvis.”</p><p>“Your work here isn’t done,” says Lavellan, staring at you.</p><p>You pause, as Cassandra blocks your pathway. “It … isn’t?”</p><p><em>Oh my god, this feels like a horror movie</em>.</p><p>But Lavellan loses interest in whatever you have to say, turning towards the other three advisors instead. “She needs to be trained. We can’t just have her falling through portals. She could destroy the fabric of time as we know it.”</p><p>Cullen scoffs, “She is one woman.”</p><p>But Lavellan just gives him a look, as if to remind him of the very many <em>one-women</em> standing in the war room. “Do you have a better idea, commander?”</p><p>“Send her home,” he says. “She has no more use here.”</p><p>“Ouch,” you mutter, though you halfheartedly agree too. <em>You have overspent yourself in this timeline</em>. You don’t really want to return to Vegas, but the thought of not having all your modern comforts is somewhat disquieting. No running water, no plumbing, no electricity. Not to mention, your friends are still there, waiting on you.</p><p>You don't belong here after all.</p><p>“I suggest we give her to Grand Enchanter Fiona,” says Leliana. “Put her under the tutelage of the mages.”</p><p>“I’m not <em>meat</em>, you know. I am a human being with wants and needs and—”</p><p>Cassandra gives Cullen a look, “She’s your charge, commander.”</p><p><em>Oh great. No one’s listening to me</em>.</p><p>“She’ll make herself useful with the mages,” says Lavellan, rising to her feet. “Leliana has the right idea.”</p><p>You have the skeevy feeling of receiving judgment, as if you’ve done something wrong, but it comes with none of the fun of actually sitting before the Inquisition throne and receiving judgment. <em>This is the same. </em>No one ever listened to you at work—why would that change now? <em>Your voice doesn’t matter.</em> You’re just being thrown around by the strings of fate and hoping you don’t hit the wall <em>splat</em>.</p><p>Cullen just sighs, “At your order.”</p><p>You <em>would</em> ask if you had a say in this, but you already know the answer. <em>They’re right, anyway</em>. <em>I can’t just go flopping around in two different dimensions</em>. In a way, you’re not really part of either world anymore. You’re just a meandering tourist in both. <em>Talk about noncommittal</em>. At the same time, you’re the cause and effect.<em>You can literally make the world a better place. Imagine that</em>. You're not sure if you want the responsibility yet.</p><p>“And get her changed,” says Cassandra, looking at your dress again.</p><p>“I like it,” says Josephine, cocking her head at your gown. “It’s … elegant. Simple.”</p><p>“Thank you,” you mumble.</p><p>“What do you think, commander?” Leliana folds her hands behind her back and glances at Cullen, who looks positively peeved at the suggestion.</p><p>“I think we should get moving,” he says, stepping towards the door.</p><p>You scratch the back of your head, somewhat lost because you’re still thinking about Elvis and his afternoon cigar and the chapel you’d fallen into. <em>You’d wished so hard to be somewhere else—you ended up there</em>. You wonder if you wished hard enough to be in Hawaii, you’d be there too. You don’t know why you keep ending up <em>here</em>, of all places.</p><p>When Cullen sees you staring off into empty space, he backpedals and grabs you by the wrist, dragging you out the door towards his study. It garners funny looks from all the nobles loitering in the halls.</p><p>“I’ll need to assign you a room,” he says, pulling you down the main hall, past Solas’s study, woefully empty. “You’ll have to make your keep around here too, but I’m sure the First Enchanter will keep you busy.” He’s going at a million miles an hour—you don’t really know how to keep up.</p><p>“Cullen, slow down,” you say, breaching the outdoors.</p><p>He quirks a brow and lets go of your wrist, not aware he’d been dragging you along in the first place.</p><p>You settle at the battlements, staring over the edge where the soldiers are training in the courtyard.</p><p>Winter wind pierces through and you instinctively hug yourself to keep warm as the snow starts falling down in clumps. <em>It never snowed in the game, but I guess it doesn’t matter because this isn’t a game anymore. This is real. Everything we do counts now</em>. You never really thought about that way. Every decision you make from now on has a consequence.</p><p>“I was worried,” he says, coming up next to you. “One moment, you were there. The next you were gone. I thought I might’ve conjured you from the depths of my imagination, the way you vanished like that. Or that you might’ve been a ghost. A spirit or something.”</p><p>You fiddle with your thumbs, snowflakes catching in your lashes.</p><p>“Sorry for making you worry,” you throw out, not sure what else to say.</p><p>“That’s not what I—” He drops his head. “I’m glad you’re … safe. That’s all.”</p><p>You look at your hands just to make sure they’re still there. “It’s going to happen again, I think.” You heave a sigh, brushing away the snow from your eyes and the blurry tears that form between them. “I haven’t decided if it’s a good or a bad thing.”</p><p>“I’d like to believe it’s a good thing,” he says. “Think of all the lives you saved. My life, too. That’s worth something.”</p><p>“I knew you were going to live. In every iteration of the game, you always do. Plot armor, I think—because you have another purpose to serve. Or whatever. In your story, you might call that the Maker’s call,” you tell him, turning to meet his gaze. “Well, it doesn’t matter what it is. Or what I think.”</p><p>You smile a little, I’m glad you’re alive too.”</p><p>He blinks at you.</p><p>You wonder if you’ve said something wrong until you see a wisp of a smile forming on his face.</p><p>*</p><p>Fiona offers you apprentice robes to wear. <em>Not my favorite outfit in the game, but it’ll do</em>, you think. You always preferred Vivienne’s cut of the dress, but it’s not like you have the length or stature to pull it off. Still, the sleeveless jacket gives you enough freedom to move around and the fabric you wear underneath is breathable enough to stop you from sweating buckets.</p><p>She spares you the formalities and sits you down in her study, where she offers an annotated breakdown of what magic is, which is good because you don’t actually understand what magic is. <em>Magic should exist to serve man and never rule over him</em>. You know these words. You know what they mean. You’ve heard them in almost every iteration of the game. They’re impactful in some, less impactful in others—the core of all three games is finding balance. And then arguing about where the balance is found.</p><p>You’ve considered it before.</p><p>It’s not an easy question to answer.</p><p>“The Maker’s words. And somehow, they’ve been twisted to mean something else. Those who wield magic should exist to serve man,” you remark. “Or maybe mages should exist to serve man. It could mean anything.”</p><p>“All religious ideologies are inherently vague in nature. It is true. Men will twist every implication in the fever of war and agenda.” Fiona looks indifferent, as she resumes her seat. “And yet better men oft prevail. In the most trying times.”</p><p>You pause, studying her face, “Blink if the chantry is holding you up at gunpoint.”</p><p>She arches a brow, looking amused as she starts studying your body. Having you strip to your smallclothes, prodding you with various magicks, not quite insinuating anything until you’re fully dressed and sat again.</p><p>“In its most empirical form, a portal is a gateway to a different space. A portal from Val Royeaux to the Winter Palace would require an army of mages. Resources that would take years to accrue. Lyrium that would take months to mine. Potions that would take entire colleges to brew. From what I understand, you’ve been using your own body as a vessel. Most mages use megascopes. Rare entities of magic. There are only a handful available in Thedas. Two of them belong to Empress Celene.”</p><p>“Makes sense,” you say, even though it’s a lot to unpack.</p><p>“No. It makes little sense, actually.” She pauses, studying the assortment of trinkets on her desk before meeting your gaze. “You should be dead.”</p><p>She doesn’t look like she’s fucking with you.</p><p>“But … I’m not?”</p><p>“No. You’re not. That is where our conundrum arises.” She rises from her seat and offers you a hand. “Let us go. There is much to be done.”</p><p>*</p><p>She sits you down in the courtyard and has you focus.</p><p>Easier said than done.</p><p>Especially when you have three other Templars watching your every move. They’re young knights, each one tall and built and broad. The First Enchanter says something about channeling your energy, but even she seems a little miffed by what to do with you. <em>You are an unexplainable phenomenon</em>, she’d said. You’d taken it as a compliment first, but now you know it’s code for <em>we are afraid of you</em>.</p><p>“So,” you say, meeting Fiona’s gaze. “Ali—King Alistair—he’s … ruling alone?”</p><p>She gives you a funny look, “He has a court of advisors, but I suppose you could say he rules alone, yes."</p><p>“And the Hero of Ferelden—she—”</p><p>“He.”</p><p>You do an inner fist-pump, beaming at her. "So ... no queen-to-be in the picture? No ... mistresses?"</p><p>She gives you a withering gaze.</p><p>“Please. I implore you to pay attention,” she says, taking her spot in the clearing. “Channel the portal outside yourself.”</p><p>It goes on like that for a while until the sun starts setting and the Templars are getting antsy watching you. They’re talking about the tavern girls, which makes you want to drink at the tavern, and it isn’t until Fiona says something about calling it in that disappointed tone that you realize you've wasted a whole day.</p><p>*</p><p>Sera introduces you to the others. Blackwall, Iron Bull, the Chargers.</p><p>Blackwall is gentlemanly as can be, which is to say he asks you a bit about your training in the courtyard from the morning. Iron Bull is more interested in the world you’re from—almost as much as you’re interested in the world he’s from. Varric (oh, Varric) tells you so resolutely that he’s already pitying you, which isn’t the worst greeting in the world, but also not something you’re pining over. They buy you drinks and offer you cheers, apparently already aware of your story. Who you are, where you’re from, <em>what</em> you are.</p><p>Dorian arrives to say hello but shirks the gathering after one pint of ale. He’d rather find the festivities elsewhere, already knowing a bit about time travel.</p><p>So you stay, you drink, and try not to be overwhelmed by everything. All these familiar faces, but they’re really just strangers you’re meeting for the very first time. Once they’re two pints in, they start badgering you with questions about the future. <em>What do things look like, give us details, no such thing as being too sparing—</em></p><p>For the most part, you humor them. You tell them about cars, computers, and telephones. You tell them about airplanes—the city you grew up in, and the cities you’ve yet to see. You give them the SparkNotes on world history, as you get to the elephant in the room.  </p><p>“You were all part of a game, and now you’ll be in my history books,” you say in a low whisper, taking a sip of ale only to find it biting you with a bitterness you’re not used to.</p><p>Varric perks up at the sound of those words, “Be sure to tell them the handsome dwarf with the scar is not to be blamed for any of the ensuing catastrophes to come.”</p><p>You snort. After a short second of consideration, you down the rest of your ale, feeling it bubble in your stomach as you meet his gaze. “I’ll be sure to let them know,” you tell him, wiping away the foam on your upper lip before flagging down the bartender for a refill.</p><p>The questions don’t stop until morning comes.</p><p>*</p><p>By the time you’re back in your sleeping quarters, the sun’s already rising. In a few hours, you’ll be back in the courtyard facing the cruel tutelage of First Enchanter Fiona. You flop down on your sleeping cot, staring up at the ceiling and wondering if it’s worth even falling asleep now.</p><p>You don’t get a chance to think because you do.</p><p>*</p><p>It’s a nightmare.</p><p>Corypheus is saying something in hushed whispers. It’s one thing to see him on screen, but it’s another thing to see him in-person. To smell him, the rot of him all—ransacked bodies, hellfire, and brimstone. All his open pores and broken vessels. It’s like melting copper in your nose. You practically gag at the smell until you see him bark out orders to an army of monstrosities in the chamber of some unkept crypt.</p><p><em>Red Templars</em>.</p><p>You duck behind the closest pillar you can find, feeling the blood rush to your face. You peer over the edge again, but he’s standing in front of you. Only inches away. He grabs you by the collar and chokes you out with his gangly fingers—nails digging into your skin. “Who are you?” He says, squinting at you.</p><p>He’s uglier in person. So much more uglier than you could conceive. Everything about him … is wrong.</p><p>When he smiles, you feel your stomach jump.</p><p>“Seems like we have ourselves a little spy,” he says.</p><p>He tosses you like a ragdoll—you go flying, <em>flying</em>, flying—until you hit the wall. Except the wall never actually breaks your fall. You go <em>through</em> the wall, and the smile on Corypheus’s face vanishes as he orders his men to go after you.</p><p>*</p><p>“Wake up!”</p><p>Sweating. That’s what you are, as you jerk up from your sleeping cot, finding a pair of hands holding your head—a pair of hands that belong to Cullen. Instinct compels you to fight, but whatever vestige of sanity is holding you intact is screaming <em>slow down, slow down, slow down</em>—slow down before you hurt yourself.</p><p><em>Slow down before you hurt someone else</em>.</p><p>“You were having a nightmare,” he says, sighing.</p><p>You run your fingers through your hair, “He knows I’m here.” Your hands are still shaking, your neck still aching from where he choked you. “Corypheus—I mean. He knows. He saw me. In my dreams—”</p><p>Was it just a dream? <em>Or was it real?</em> The lines are beginning to blur. You just know it’s bullshit.</p><p>“Skyhold is adequately defended,” he says. “I can assure you you’re safe.”</p><p>“But what if the danger is me?” You ask, meeting his gaze. “I—can’t control this … thing. I don’t know what I’m doing. What if I wake up and I’m dawdling around in the dark with that walking yeast infection? He might—torture me for information. I don’t know.”</p><p>Cullen pauses. Only then do you realize he’s still wearing his armor. <em>Does this man not sleep?</em> You wonder about it, as you tell him about your dream.</p><p>He doesn’t say much, but the shock on his face inevitably boils down to something of concern as he murmurs something about “bad timing” and “the inquisitor is away on a mission.”</p><p>You bury your face into your cot again.</p><p>Cullen reaches out to touch your shoulder but pulls back as soon as he sees that you’re sitting up, ready to start the day.</p><p>“How did you know I was awake?” You ask, looking over your shoulder at him.</p><p>“You were screaming,” he says, rubbing his neck. “I could hear you from above.” He points to the ladder leading up to his office and you have to guffaw at the sheer ridiculousness. <em>You’re sleeping in his basement, essentially</em>. The map of the world right above your head. It’s just too much to process.</p><p>“That means you weren’t sleeping either,” you tack on, rising from your cot.</p><p>He doesn’t say much about that.</p><p>You glance at the mirror on your nightstand—the one that Leliana had lent you. “I have an idea,” you say, meeting your own reflection. It’s odd to think this is the one essential you asked for—only to realize that you didn’t need it at all.</p><p>*</p><p>The courtyard is empty at this hour.</p><p>Cullen follows you to the clearing where the dummies are.</p><p>You plop yourself down on the empty bench and set the mirror at your feet.</p><p>"I don't think I understand," he says.</p><p>You stare at your reflection in the mirror and take a breath, "Just watch."</p><p>You close your eyes, conjuring images of Vegas.<em> Elvis and his afternoon coffee</em>. But the image isn’t exactly inspiring, so you think of something else.</p><p>You think about the wedding. <em>Ringing bells, happy smiles, your ex-boyfriend holding your hand. He’s just as nervous as you are</em>. <em>You look so pretty</em>, he says, and your stomach does a little flip when you see him smiling at you with all the love and adoration in the world. You don’t love him anymore, but the familiarity is comforting. You miss that more than anything else.</p><p>"Maker's breath ..."</p><p>You open your eyes and see a black hole in the netherspace. It’s spinning. It’s blacker than black. You’ve never seen anything like it.</p><p>It vanishes in less than a blink. Cullen betrays nothing but the faintest scowl on his face. He looks ... scared.</p><p>"I had a feeling," you explain, looking at the hole. "I was looking at myself in a mirror the last time this happened."</p><p>Something dawns on his face, "You can use it as a conduit ..."</p><p>But the hole shifts--and widens.</p><p>"What's happening?" He asks.</p><p>You try to close your eyes and think of something else, but the hole is still there--gaping.</p><p>"I--I don't know how to close it," you say. "I don't--"</p><p>Your hands are shaking, and when you look into the mirror that Leliana lent you, you can see his claw prints on your neck. You know it’s going to bruise. <em>Next time you meet him, he might not let you go</em>. You try to imagine an alternate reality where you met Corypheus before you met everyone in Haven, but it’s hard to think of any scenarios where you make it out alive. Or worse, enslaved to his rule.</p><p>This is happening again, you think, as you stare at your disappearing hands.</p><p>Cullen is at your side in an instant, hands wrapping around yours in less than an instant, “You're not going anywhere."</p><p>You smile at him, weakly, "I don't think we have a ch--"</p><p>*</p><p>You can’t breathe. The darkness is stifling. <em>And slimy</em>.</p><p><em>This is hell</em>, you think, opening your eyes and seeing nothing but snakes. They’re the size of skyscrapers, slithering. <em>Hissing</em>. A smaller, unluckier snake gets eaten by a bigger one—you can see the shadow of it withering away in acid and desperation. This is some circle of hell. Which one, you’re not sure.</p><p>"This way!" Cullen slashes at them with his sword, but they swarm together and form one monstrous entity in the fall.</p><p>One of them snips at your hand and you shriek at the pain, only yourself bleeding. The other snakes—even the building-sized ones—catch a whiff of your blood, and something in their eyes <em>snap</em>. You know they’re hungry.</p><p>You know they’re hungry for <em>you</em>.</p><p>"This way," he says again, offering you a hand.</p><p>You <em>bolt</em>, grabbing his hand and summoning a portal off the far-off cliff in the distance where there are no snakes.</p><p>Two of them have already slithered around your wrists, tying you down. Another fat one the size of an anaconda has your thighs tethered together. You try gunning it forward again, but you end up falling face-first into the ground. Cullen wrangles you to your feet, but the snakes are pulling.</p><p>The portal is vanishing—you realize it’s too late. It’s vanishing—</p><p>Darkness rips open beneath you and the two of you are falling again.</p><p>In limbo, in nothingness—the falling comes to a halt when you blink. You’re floating now. In the darkness again, except water’s filling your lungs and you don’t know which way you’re swimming anymore. If you’re even swimming the right way. You could be dragging yourself to an intimate end in the dark abyss,</p><p>And then you see it. A crackle of lightning from above. Light blazes the sky in hellfire and cinders. With the last bastion of strength you can muster, you pull yourself above the surface—hungry for breath. There’s a Dreadnaught crackling. The surface is only a mile out; you try to swim away from it, but the waves compel you backwards. Everything is fighting against you.</p><p>It explodes.</p><p>You dunk your head beneath the surface of the water and hold your breath.</p><p>Beneath you, there's a glint of armor that reflects in the hellfire blaze. You realize it's Cullen. He's drowning.</p><p><em>No, </em>you think--he's drowning and it's your fault.</p><p>You scream, the last bit of air escaping your lungs, and suddenly--</p><p>*</p><p>The car horns are blaring.</p><p>All around you are flashing lights. You can't hear--you can't think. You're choking water out of your lungs.</p><p>You're in Vegas, standing in the middle of the strip. The Bellagio's a half mile down, the fountains just starting up for their nightly performance. The lights are neon and beaming. You choke up another mouthful of water as the cars continue blaring around you.</p><p>"Get the fuck out of the way," hisses one angry driver as his wheels screech to a stop. He points his middle finger at you.</p><p>Cullen is splayed out next to you, unmoving.</p><p>You rush to his side, checking for a breath. <em>Nothing</em>. You take a breath, and press your lips against his--absolutely no intimacy whatsoever, only the desperation of keeping him alive. You do it again, pressing your ear to his chest again, hoping for something, <em>anything</em>--</p><p>A heartbeat.</p><p>"Cullen," you whisper, as the car horns continue screaming. "Cullen, please--"</p><p>He coughs, water coming down the sides of his cheeks. When he opens his eyes and meets your gaze, he smiles.</p><p>"Tell me we're somewhere safe," he says, and before he can ask where, you have your arms wrapped around him in a hug.</p><p>You realize you're sobbing.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>talk to me about dragon age on <a href="https://twitter.com/wanderlu5tt/">twitter</a>... let's discuss how awakening anders and da2 anders are two completely different people i simply cannot accept GIVE ME BACK LEFT EARRING ANDERSSSS ARGHHHHHH BIOWARE I SPIT ON U</p><p>should be 3 chapters total :D</p></blockquote></div></div>
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